Deliverance
by Renflower21
Summary: Dallas's life can be defined by his escape attempts - from himself, his family, and most of all, the Genoard estate. But ready to bring him back, every time, is Eve.
1. Middle Child Syndrome

At thirteen years old, Dallas Genoard decided to run away from home.

He kneeled on the plush carpet of his bedroom floor, stuffing his belongings into a small suitcase, shoving down on the pile of clothes to try and make it all fit. He had trouble choosing what to bring along - after all, he had so many possessions to choose from, and he didn't want to give any of it up. But Dallas figured he'd be making plenty of money on his own soon. How hard could it be? Especially for someone as smart as him. He had so many ideas for money-making schemes, and he just _knew _they'd all catch on. And if times got rough - so what? He'd just hit up his parents and guilt trip them into handing over some money. For the time being, though, he stashed wads of cash in the lining of his suitcase. Some of it came from his allowance, but he tended to blow that within days, so most of the cash he'd filched from around the house. No one would miss it anyway.

Just like no one would miss him.

Not his older brother Jeffrey, the prodigal son who was too busy basking in his position as heir to spare any attention for Dallas. He had too many _responsibilities_ to entertain the middle child, though Dallas thought the excuse was bunk. How hard could it be, getting to be the center of family attention all the time? If Dallas was the heir, he'd be living it up. Jeffrey was just too _stupid_ to know what to do with his fortune.

His father wouldn't miss him either. The man was always working, and when he was home, spent most of his time teaching Jeffrey the family business. That, or doting over Eve, who was at the age where she apparently needed a lot of guidance. Sure, he was nice to _them_. But when he talked to Dallas, it was always to yell at him for being rude or inattentive or 'blemishing the family name' or something equally ridiculous.

'_The family name_.' Dallas scoffed at the thought. His father thought the younger son didn't know how the Genoards made their fortune, but Dallas did. He'd heard his father talking about it, had seen the evidence. He wasn't stupid, not like his dad and brother thought. He knew what his father did, knew that his family's reputation was built on illegal deals and underhanded means. His father could pretend the Genoards were some spotless, prestigious lineage, but Dallas knew the truth, and he wasn't going to pretend to be someone he wasn't. Not for the sake of this family that didn't even pay him his proper dues.

In his heart, Dallas believed he was meant to be somebody. Someone important. Still, no one else seemed to possess any faith in him, nor did they pay his opinions any attention. He had all the money he could need at hand, a name that instilled respect, and yet no one listened to him. Everyone waved him away when he spoke, or laughed in his face. What did they know anyway? Bunch of idiots, all of them, thinking they were so superior. Well, he'd show them. He'd run off and make a name for himself, and they'd all be sorry. He'd walk over anyone who stood in his way, just like his dear old dad, and he'd show them all that he was worth something.

At least his friends listened to him. They _respected _him, just like everyone should. He bought them booze from a back-alley distributer and beat to hell anyone who insulted him, and they followed him like sheep. They didn't _like _him, but who needed that anyway? Better to be in charge than loved. He'd probably hook up with one of them and crash at their place for a while before finding somewhere to stay permanently. He hadn't told any of them this plan yet, but he was sure they'd go along with it. Dallas grinned, proud of how well he'd thought this over.

With a _click, _he locked the suitcase shut. He ran his hand over the smooth leather fabric, admiring the high quality of the case. He's stolen it from Jeffrey's room earlier that evening, figuring his brother didn't need it anyway. Dallas hefted up the suitcase and slipped out the door of his room. His father and older brother had gone out for the night, forgetting to tell Dallas their destination as usual, which left only Eve and the servants. And none of the workers ever questioned his coming and going. He spent most nights hanging out on the streets with his friends these days.

Dallas made it halfway to the stairs when he heard a door creak open. Expecting one of the maids, he glanced to the side, only to see Eve peeking out of her room. His little sister hugged the wooden doorframe, dressed in a long pink nightgown. One of the servants must have put her to bed earlier, since Dallas sure as hell didn't play babysitter.

"You want something?" He asked.

When she'd first been born, Dallas had no idea what to make of Eve. In fact, he'd been resentful for the first couple years, since the new sibling stole even more attention away from him. That was, until he noticed the girl looked at him like he'd hung the stars in the sky, like he was exactly the hero he always thought of himself as. She wasn't disrespectful or stupid like Jeffrey or his dad - Eve was _different_. She was the only member of the family he could tolerate. Didn't mean she wasn't annoying sometimes, though. He gave her a stern expression, not wanting to deal with her childishness tonight.

Eve pointed at his suitcase. "Where are you going?"

Dallas glared at her. "Nowhere. Don't worry about it."

"Dad carries one of them when he goes away for a long time. Are you going away, Dallas?" She looked up at him with large eyes, which sparkled with an innocent worry. Dallas hated when she looked at him that way, as if he needed her concern.

"I _said _stop badgering me about it. Isn't it late? Go to bed already." He said, jabbing a finger towards her room. Someone should have tucked her in already, at this hour. Did he have to do everything himself? Everyone around there was just so _useless_.

The young girl looked down at the ground. In a soft voice, she explained, "I couldn't sleep. Can you tell me a story?"

" What? Do I look like I have time for that? Go ask one of the servants or something." Dallas said, turning to leave.

"But I don't like their stories as much as yours, Dallas. You're the best at it."

_The best_. The words halted the middle child, who never heard those words ascribed to him. It was true, he had a knack for telling tales to his little sister. Dallas even enjoyed it, making up adventures and casting himself as the lead hero. Plus, he liked the look on her face when he finished an exciting story, the closest to admiration he'd ever gotten. Dallas groaned as he realized he'd trapped himself, that he couldn't resist abiding by Eve's request.

"Alright, alright, but it'll be a quick one, okay? Now scram on inside and get in bed." He said.

Grinning, Eve opened the door and turned, scurrying over to her bed, which was much too big for the tiny girl. In fact, the whole room was enormous, though Dallas was used to having a large amount of space. It occurred to him that his next place of residence might not be as roomy, a thought he met with disdain. He followed Eve inside and sat down on her bed as she slipped beneath the covers and made herself comfortable.

"Okay, now see here, this story is about, ah - a knight! Yeah, a knight. And he's on this journey, right? So here's how it starts - "

For the next half-hour, Dallas spun a fairy tale for his little sister. He based it on a story about King Arthur he'd heard in school, knowing Eve wouldn't know the difference, but added many of his own elements. Well, he'd forgotten half of the original story, since school wasn't worth his attention, so he needed to make most of it up. By the time Dallas finished, with the rescue of the damsel in distress and the knight's return home, Eve was half-asleep.

"There you go. Happy? Now go to sleep." He said, leaning over to pick up the suitcase he'd put on the floor. As he started to stand up from the bed, a hand grabbed the fabric of his jacket and tugged.

He looked to see Eve staring up at him with wide eyes and a frown turning her small lips.

"What do you want now?" He asked.

"I don't like being here alone. I'm scared, and Dad and Jeffrey are gone again. Can you stay with me? Please?" She asked.

Dallas grimaced, thinking about his plan to leave that night. If he waited until tomorrow, and his dad and brother came home, he'd have to put off his plans another week at least. He didn't know how much longer he could stand being around those people. But Eve looked at him with such hope, that he didn't know if he could refuse her. No one had ever _needed _him before. Hell, no one had even really _wanted _him around before Eve. Thinking it over, Dallas figured he could wait until she fell asleep and then slip out. No harm in sticking around for a couple more hours.

"Fine. Just let me go get the lights, alright?" He said, shaking off her arm and getting up.

Dropping the suitcase again, he crossed the room and turned off the light, and when he turned around, Eve had the blankets clutched to her chest, still watching him. What, was she afraid he'd leave? Dallas didn't get it. He didn't understand a lot of things about Eve. He just knew he liked feeling important to someone. He wanted to be the protector, the knight, she thought he was.

Dallas returned to her bed and positioned himself so that he laid on his back next to her, on top of the blanket. He folded his hands beneath his head and stared at the ceiling, wondering how long he'd have to stay there. To his dismay, Eve rolled over and threw an arm across his waist, clutching his shirt fabric and nuzzling her forehead against his side. He brought one hand down and patted her head, resting it atop her soft tresses.

"Night, Eve." He said.

"Night, Dallas." She whispered, eyes closed.

In only a few minutes, Eve's breathing had slowed to a steady rhythm, her muscles lax against his body. Dallas saw his chance to escape, to flee as he'd planned earlier. But he also knew that if he moved, he risked waking her back up, and then he'd have to explain himself. Not to mention, he'd have to see the look in her eyes when she realized he'd lied to her. In fact, if he left, he'd probably have to see that look often from her. Then he'd be important to nobody again.

Besides that, his own eyes felt heavy, and sleep tugged at his consciousness. The luxurious bed beneath him was comfortable, and he didn't feel like moving. He glanced at Eve, whose face appeared peaceful as she slumbered, before closing his own eyes. Dallas relaxed, surprised to find that he took comfort in the presence of his sister beside him. Not _everything _was loathsome about this household after all. He thought about the suitcase he'd packed, and realized he had no intention of leaving that night, the next day, or even next week.

For Eve's sake, at least - he'd try to stay a little while longer.

* * *

A/N: I wanted to work with the dynamics of the Genoard family, and the result was this set of three companion pieces. Thanks for reading!


	2. Family Portrait

"The fuck? You're kicking me out?"

"It's not being kicked out if _you _made the choices that force you to leave. I'm sure you understand."

'_Yeah, I understand alright. Understand you're a goddamn asshole. You and Jeffrey. Elitist motherfucking pricks, thinking you're so much better than me. Fuck you. Fuck this whole family.' _

Dallas sits across from his father in the man's home office, confined to a small wooden chair that reminds him of being chastised and shoved into 'time-out' as a child. He figures his father probably invoked that memory on purpose, to try to emasculate and humiliate him. That was all his family ever did, after all.

To complete the clear divide of power, his father is perched behind a large business desk, the sheer size of which only makes the older man look larger and more imposing. Whereas Dallas, just by being in front of it, becomes utterly diminished and insignificant. Dallas closes in, pulling his arms close across his chest and leaning hard against the back of the chair, as if the conscious choice to make himself smaller will give him at least that meager amount of control over his being cut down.

"It's not fucking fair."

"Which part of it is unfair? The hundreds of chances I've given you in the past? Or the hundreds of dollars I've given you, knowing full well you'll just toss it down the drain?"

'_Who the fuck cares, anyway? We were loaded, weren't we? Like you're using that money for anything better. Bullshit social events and stuffy clothing and paying off the assholes who own you. At least I live for _me. _At least I'm living it up.'_

"I have given you _every _opportunity to clean up and actually contribute to this family. Every chance."

'_Contribute? Fuck that. You just want me to stand around and be a fucking showpiece, an accessory for your favorite child. So I'm too young for the business? Yeah fucking right. It's always been about Jeffrey. What's there left to contribute, when he's got every goddamn thing already?'_

"I've talked to you about this before, but you just don't listen, Dallas. Even Jeffrey tried. And now you won't even speak to him? That's _childish_. He's your _brother_."

'_He's an _asshole. _That jerk wasn't _'trying'_ to do anything but belittle me. That smug fucking face. Acting like I'm some goddamn little kid. I don't need his help. I don't need his anything.'_

"I mean - _christ_, Dallas. This was bad enough when you were a kid, but at least then, I thought you'd grow out of it. Showing up here wasted last night? Always disappearing for months on end, only to show up asking for cash? Looking like a complete wreck and reeking of alcohol at that. Do you have no respect for us? I mean, I already know you have none for yourself."

_'Well excuse me. I didn't realize everything I fucking did had to appease _you_, oh great father of mine. And who are you to talk about respect? You never respected me. Everyone just looked down on me. Of course I don't want to fucking hang around here, want anything but money from you. Mom's the only one who respected me, and she's dead. Eve does, but you'll change that eventually. You bitter fuck._

"What are you even doing with that money? Listen to me - you best only be blowing it on alcohol. Because I'm _not_ going to have our associates whispering about my son the drug addict, let me tell you that."

'_Coming from the man who makes his fortune from those drugs, huh? Fucking hypocrite. Why would I respect you? I could be dead in a ditch for all you care. So long as I'm not smearing your pristine fucking reputation.'_

"This is the final straw, Dallas. You're on your own now. You don't want to be a part of this family, then you can take responsibility for yourself from now on. You can't have it both ways."

'_You act like that's a punishment. I don't need anyone but myself. Don't need any of you idiots and fucking jerks. I got me, and I'm damn smart enough, damn strong enough, to make it on my own. I don't need you to have faith in me. I got plenty myself.'_

"We don't have the money to finance your stupidity any longer. And even if we hadn't just been robbed, I still wouldn't let this continue. If you're leaving, I'll give you just enough to make ends meet, and not a penny more. And that's only because having you starve to death, as you'll inevitably do without someone helping you out, will look bad for me."

'_At least you're an honest fuck. Sometimes. Don't need your goddamn help, but I'll take your money. Because it ought to be mine. All this ought to be mine. What did you fuckers do to deserve it? I ought to just rip your goddamn throat out, take it all for myself. For all you're worth.' _

"Aren't you going to say something for yourself? Dammit, Dallas - don't just slouch there and glare at me. You're twenty years old, for God's sake. Start acting it."

Dallas leaps from his chair, the waning thread of his patience finally snapping. Rage whips across his face, contorting his masculine features into a pure representation of anger. His hands slam down on the edge of his father's desk, sending the echo of his wrath through the office. It'll hurt later, but for now, his temper is an anesthesia that numbs him to all else. The ultimate defense mechanism, more potent than any of his father's drugs, flooding hot through his veins.

"Oh, I've got something to fucking say to you, _Pop_. How about you shut your goddamn worthless trap and take your fucking hypocritical morals and shove them right up your ass? I don't fucking need them, and I don't fucking need _you_."

"Dallas. Sit back down." His father hisses.

"How about - Go fuck yourself?"

"I can have you cut off for good, even that meager bit of allowance, right now. And make sure you're sliced out of every will the Genoard family ever makes. Is that clear?"

Clamping his jaw down, Dallas backs up and retakes his seat, eyes still flashing with unrestrained hatred. He'll play their game for now, just enough to get his cash. Get his due. He hates his father for using money against him, but it only proves what Dallas knew all along. Money talks, and with it, comes power. It's what makes a man; it's what gives you authority; it's what gives you enough respect to be happy. More so than family ever will. It's the only thing worth pursuing.

"Good. Now, I don't want you coming around here again, until you clean up your mistake of a life and are ready to apologize for your actions. And I don't want Eve seeing you again. You're a bad influence on her."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Just like that, his decision to play along breaks, snapped by the mere mention of his little sister. Of all the resentment he harbors towards his family, all his insults lobbed towards them, Eve stands as the sole exception. She's the only one in the family with even an iota of promise and worth, in Dallas's eyes.

"What, you think she doesn't notice that you're a good-for-nothing slob? She sees you coming in drunk at all hours of the night. The bruises from these pointless fights you insist on getting into. She hears the way you talk to everyone in this house, with your filthy mouth. Do you want her to pick up those traits? Do you want her to start emulating you?"

Dallas's hands clench into fists. "Don't you talk about her like that. She's smarter than you _ever _give her fucking credit for, you know that? She's smart enough, not to, not to end up -"

"- not to end up like you, am I right? Well, at least you own up to your depravity. I'll give you that, Dallas."

'_I don't need anything from you, you fuck. Don't 'give' me a damn thing.'_

"And what if you're wrong? What if, somewhere down the line, this _does _have an impact on her? Have you even thought about that?"

_'She's smart. She's a good kid. She wouldn't. She _can't.'

"Just as I suspected. You haven't. And even if she doesn't pick up your habits, do you think this won't come back to hurt her in some way? You're a goddamn disgrace. Don't drag Eve down with you. Stay away from her."

"You don't get to tell me what to do anymore, pop. If I'm free of this family, I'm goddamn free. But you won't see me coming around here anymore. Swear to fucking god."

"Good, then we understand each other. Now get the hell out of here. I don't want to look at you anymore. God, you're such a disappointment."

"Damn straight I am. Don't want to live up to your goddamn standards, anyway."

"Don't want to live up to any standards, by the look of it."

"You dare talk to me like that, you fucking old piece of - "

"Get out. Now, Dallas. If you can't make it out of here on your own, at over twenty damn years of age, then you're even stupider than I thought."

Dallas stands up from his seat, fists still clenched tight. As he glares at his father, he pictures all the ways he can kill him, right at that moment. Pull out his knife and gut the old bastard, see if he's just as rotten on the inside as Dallas suspects. Strangle him, feel the life drain out of the man beneath his own two hands. Beat him to death with the chair, release the violence burning at his insides. Knock him over the head with a paperweight, give him a few years to waste away as a vegetable before finally granting him death. It is, Dallas thinks, the last measure of power he has in the face of his father. The only advantage he has over the figure who kept him so tight under his thumb.

But he does none of that. He doesn't want the satisfaction so badly that he'll go to jail for it, and forfeit whatever cash he can still extort from the family. _Another day, _Dallas tells himself, swearing that someday, he'll see the man die. Preferably by Dallas's own hands. He'll just have to bide his time, wait until a more opportune moment.

Still, his rage needs somewhere to go, some direction to channel it towards. So with a guttural cry, Dallas grabs the wooden chair and heaves it into one of the office walls, with enough force to break a couple of the legs. His father starts to yell something behind him, but Dallas exits the room without listening, slamming the door behind him.

'_Just wait, old man. You just fucking wait. We'll see who's a disappointment. We'll just fucking see.'_

Dallas storms towards the front door, determined not to go pack the few belongings he possesses. If he takes the time to do that, he may run into his father again, or even Jeffrey. And God knows he doesn't want to see either of their faces again.

"Motherfuckers. Both of them. Just goddamn, fucking pricks." Dallas mumbles under his breath the whole walk to the entrance, eliciting comfort in his damning of the two. If he can degrade them to himself, then their opinion of him won't matter anymore. If he can convince himself they're idiots, then their disappointment in him will no longer hurt.

"Dallas? Are you leaving again?"

The soft voice breaks through his haze of anger, snapping him back into the present. He turns to see Eve watching him, standing next to the stairway by the door. She clutches her hands tight together, eyes brimming with disappointment that still manifests as sadness. Dallas fears little more than the day it turns to resignation, then acceptance, and then expectance. Eventually, she too will look at him like his father does. Like Jeffrey does.

"It's none of your business, Eve. Quit worrying about me." He says, though for once, he must force the annoyance.

She takes a step forward. "Will you at least come back to visit?"

"Why, so I can sit around and listen to dad and Jeffrey bitch about me the whole time? I don't fucking think so. No one wants me here."

"I want you here, Dallas."

_'You never were a very good liar, sis.'_

He edges closer to the door, ready to bolt at any moment. Emotional situations always make him uncomfortable; he never has any idea what he's supposed to say.

She continues, "I really like it when you teach me things, Dallas. Maybe you can teach me to play billiards again, sometime. Or darts."

It's nothing but a tactic to rope him into staying, or at least coming back, and both of them know it. All Dallas knows how to do is how to play bar-room games and pick out good liquor and win in a street fight. Eve shouldn't be learning about any of those. Maybe a couple of games, but aside from those, all the lessons he can teach are ones he does not want her to learn.

_'Don't drag her down with you.'_

What's better - to be hated by the one you love, or to watch them turn into that which you hate? Eve stands as the only person in the family who doesn't currently dislike him. Little Eve, so naive and trusting. He gives his father and brother just months before they have her believing he's nothing but a moronic thug. And hey - it'd be half true, right? He's not smart; he's not successful; he's not like the rest of the family. He's not someone to look up to. Dallas wraps his hand around the doorknob, and he squeezes until the cold metal cuts into his skin.

"I don't got time to play with you, Eve. Just leave me alone."

He pulls open the door, refusing to look back at his younger sister. Eyes shut tight, his lips twist into a deep frown, the contorted expression of a man holding back an immense temper. The anger from his conversation with his father eats away at him, but he refuses to unleash it towards Eve. In a way, that may be the best thing for her, but he thinks he will not be able to bear inflicting it. _'Selfish. So goddamn selfish.' _He thinks. Even when trying to shake her off, he keeps screwing up.

"Will you at least come back, sometime?"

_'Dammit. Why's she asking questions when she knows she don't wanna hear the answers?' _Dallas grits his teeth, still unable to turn and face her.

He ought to refuse, to yell and tell her he doesn't ever want to see her again. Make sure she stops even pretending to like him. The words hang on the tip of his tongue, so bitter and hot that he almost expels them just so he no longer has to taste it.

But he swallows them. Because, so what if he yells at her? It's not as if she hasn't heard him do that a million times before, albeit mostly to other people. It may hurt for a moment, but in time, she'll forget he even did it. What's better is to lie, to give her that false hope to remind her of his dishonesty ever day he fails to act on his words. To sow the seeds of resentment, and leave her with a bitterness that'd grow over time.

"Yeah. I'll come back real soon, little Eve."

"You promise, Dallas?"

And, settling on a half-truth, he says, "I promise. You need me, I'll be right there."

So with that grain of honesty, and the presumption that Eve will probably never need someone with his skill set, and therefore will never be his business again, he leaves the family house, bound for New York City. All the while swearing that, this time, his departure will be for good.

* * *

A/N: Part Two. This one was interesting, because there was very little information in the novels on Raymond Genoard, so I had a lot of leeway in constructing his character. Well, thank you for reading.


	3. Deliverance

Dallas lasts all of three weeks after the Lamia incident before he packs his bags to leave the Genoard manor once more.

In the other room, Eve is asleep, so he works as discretely as he can, not even turning on the lights as he pushes random articles of clothing into a suitcase. The specifics don't matter to him, nor does the destination he has not yet decided upon. It is only the inescapable urge to run off, the need to escape the steely hand of the estate, welling up in him once more like some impossible craving.

The last three weeks have been uncomfortable and painful, his interactions with Eve akin to learning a new dance, the moves to which no one bothers to teach him. Dallas tries to speak to her as he always has, but he notices more now, after all that's transpired. He notices how she scrunches her nose when he curses out an acquaintance. He sees how her gaze slides away when he lobs a thoughtless insult her way. He cannot turn a blind eye to how she recoils when his anger flares up, how she cannot look at him sometimes. She does not want him around; he's outlived his purpose in her life, now that the danger has passed.

Just like his father once said, Dallas contributes nothing to the house. He's like the missing piece of a broken glass frame, but the edges of his shard are too rough and worn down to properly fit anymore.

Most days, he goes out drinking at the local speakeasies, a habit he swore he'd change right after Eve rescued him. His promise of alcoholic abstinence lasted no longer than a few days. Sometimes, he'll stumble home, drunk and near-tears, and she'll be there, waiting. And she asks why. Nothing else, just _why_. The morning after, the only thing Dallas remembers is his answer: "Because it's like drowning, all over again."

Every night, he wakes from the same, vivid nightmare, shot back to consciousness through sheer terror alone. There's no picture to the dream, just the blackness of being locked in an abyss, the absence of all senses, the overwhelming pain he cannot articulate, the closest to death he is allowed to be no matter how much he begs. At the point of dying, that brief and temporal relief, he'll awake with a muffled scream, gasping for breath to the point of hyperventilation. And he'll claw at his own flesh, convinced the sweat soaking his skin is that watery grave coming to drag him back under once more.

Eve comes into his room, most of the time, when his scream is loud enough to reach her in the other room. She grabs his hand and restrains him from his hysterics, asking over and over again, _what's wrong. What's wrong, Dallas. _And when his wits return to him, he pulls away from her, and he forces a scowl. Pointing towards the door, he yells at her to get out of his room, to go get some sleep. She shouldn't disturb her sleep to worry about him. He does not deserve that. She never listens, though, and ends up falling asleep sitting next to his bed, refusing to return to her room for a more comfortable slumber.

He supposes Eve means to give him comfort with that. But really, all he takes away from it is an unbearable guilt, insidious and sticky and acidic inside his ribcage. Not to mention, the humiliation of having his younger sister, whom he is meant to protect, watching him in a helpless and pathetic state.

_Snap._

Dallas shuts the suitcase, latching it closed. Sitting on the ground, he buries his face in his hands and heaves a deep sigh. He supposes he will return to New York City, try to make it again on those streets that suit his brutish nature better than a fancy manor ever will. No matter where he runs to, Dallas knows it will be the same. Nothing ever changes; even the water that swallowed him for so long couldn't wash out the blemishes on his personality, the stains on his soul. He can inflate his ego with booze and mugging and fistfights all he wants. But he'll never escape the fact that he is the person who made his sister cry, who failed in the only task he cared about - the true failure of the Genoard family, just like his pop always said.

The difference is - it's easier to forget these facts when he has alcohol and thugs backing him up, feeding him respect that cannot fill the void, but which can at least make him forget its existence. He figures it shouldn't take him too long to round up some new cohorts. Ill people always attract each other, trying to justify their predilections with the presence of their equally depraved peers. They are all interchangeable, the type he hangs around. Just as Dallas is. Which is why he feels no guilt for leaving the estate.

He runs the palm of his hand over the smooth, leather surface of his suitcase. Had this been his father's? Or perhaps Jeffrey's? Their possessions litter the mansion, those little reminders that it would always belong to them, even if just in spirit. Dallas wonders if it disappoints Eve, that they are dead, and he's the one she's been left with. Did she ever wish he had died in their stead? It's strange that this should bother him now. When he plotted to kill his father, he spared no thought to Eve's potential reaction. Faced with the same question now, would he make the same decision? Would he commit patricide, Eve's opinion be damned? Dallas pretends it is a difficult question, but in truth, he knows in an instant what choice he'd make.

It's one of his regrets - the untimely death of his brother and father. He always wanted to rip the life from them himself, to prove himself through killing at least one of them. Preferably his father. But even in death, the men cheated Dallas, by stealing from him the chance for retribution. His relationship with them is akin to an unfinished story, the end pages ripped out and lost forever. How empty, the conclusion leaves him. How unfulfilled. _'Bastards to the end.' _He thinks, fingers stabbing against the hard suitcase cover.

In his mind, Dallas plots the route he will take through the house. If he takes the stairway on the east side, he can avoid the creaky steps that echo through the upstairs hallway. By cutting through the well-lit second-floor office, he can avoid the long stretch of hall, the one that's so poorly lit he always knocks a piece of furniture over. He's snuck out of the house enough times by now to know all the tricks, the paths, the methods to avoiding detection. This time, Dallas swears, he will not run into Eve.

_Click._

And he's correct. Dallas does not run into Eve, because before he even leaves, the door creaks open, spilling a line of light into the room that falls upon Dallas and splits his face in two. Guilty hand still on the packed suitcase, and sitting on the floor, Dallas cannot bring himself to look up at the figure standing at the doorway.

"You're leaving again."

Is that resignation he hears, sapping the energy from her tone? If he can convince himself of it, Dallas thinks he will be able to leave without hesitation. Because if even _Eve_, who holds such infallible faith in her God despite the destruction of her family, loses her belief in him, then it means he is just as utterly irredeemable as he always imagined.

Dallas turns his back to her, not losing his grip on the leather case. He shuts his eyes, wondering if he can shut out his conscience too with such ease. It used to be the simplest matter in the world for him. But since being drudged up from the river, he finds that suppressed morality seeping back in, called forth by his younger sister's presence.

"Go away, Eve. Get the hell back to bed - you're going to be exhausted in the morning."

There's the sound of feet against the soft carpet. The creak of the floor as Eve kneels down behind him. And when she speaks, it is louder than before.

"I can make my own decisions, Dallas. When morning comes, I will be fine. What worries me, is that you won't be."

Must she speak so plainly? Without shame, without pretenses, she speaks with honest intention, unafraid to put forth the thoughts troubling her mind. In this way, this casual lack of restraint, Dallas thinks they are similar. It's just that Dallas harbors a great deal more violent energy to let reign free than his gentle sister.

Once more, Dallas tries to trivialize his sister's opinion, to dismiss her in the easiest manner possible.

"Quit your worrying, Eve. What are you doing here anyway?"

"I come in here every night."

Dallas tenses. Another inconvenience, another trespass into the life of his sister. How long will he have to stay before she starts whittling down her life, making it small enough to fit into the only niche his massive problems will leave for her? Through a stiff jaw, he says, "What? The hell you doing that for?"

"To make sure you're still here."

'_Damn her. Damn it all to hell.' _How many times has he left Eve behind now? Too many to count. Too many times he flitted in and out at will, as if he had all the time in the world to decide on what he wanted. At least that last time, he meant to steal away any hope for his return. To keep her from having to worry about him leaving again. And yet, here he is. Right back where he began, in the place he always wanted to escape.

She asks, "What is it about this place that makes you so unhappy?"

'_Typical.' _Despite himself, a smile permeates Dallas's face, though it is twisted and bitter. The natural question to ask, especially for a young girl, is - "_what is it that makes you leave me?" _or_ "Why do you keep leaving me behind?_ " Instead, Eve penetrates straight to the heart of the matter, asking not in relation to herself, but to his own unhappiness. His emotions regarding this trait of hers are double-sided. On one hand, it's her acceptance and empathy that make her so revered to Dallas. On the other, it's the same idiotic selflessness that he uses to justify his taking advantage of those who offer it to him. He worries her naivety will make her that victim someday, if not by his hand, then by that of someone more sinister.

"I just don't belong here, alright? Don't be stupid, I'm not fit for a place like this. It ain't for people like me."

"I'm sorry, Dallas. I just don't understand."

Her voice hitches, and that's how he knows she is tearing up. He can't even leave her right, can't even spare her his presence without somehow inflicting pain upon her. It's like he's bound to her by a coil of barbed wire, and every attempt to disentangle her from it just drives the barbs in deeper.

"It's not that damn hard to get, Eve. I just don't want to bother you anymore. I'm not good here. For you _or _myself."

"But you're _not_ bothering me."

_'Fuck. You'll never understand, will you?' _Two siblings, forever trying to grasp a hold of one another, trying to snatch that elusive thread of understanding, doomed to fail by the core dissonance of their vastly different characters. It's not fair, Dallas thinks, that her God should make them so close, and yet so incapable of ever meeting in understanding. It's one of the many reasons he refuses to believe in prayer.

"You just don't see it yet. You're still a stupid little girl. I don't want it to be too late when you realize what I'm doing to you."

A pressure on the back of his shoulder blade, the soft touch of her hand against him, at once both a comfort and a reason to flee. It's not right that she, the little sister, should be granting comfort to him. It's not right that he cannot even fit the role of protector like a big brother should.

Eve gives her only argument, the one that rings purest and most honest. "You're the only family I have left."

He counters with his own. "I can't stay in this place."

Dallas expects her to cease fighting, to give up her own will in order for him to find his happiness in departure. He has always walked right over her, after all. Even when he does not mean to. Why should tonight be any different? He wraps his fingers around the handle of the suitcase, and makes a motion to get up, when she speaks again.

"They're gone. Father, and Jeffrey, they're gone. So is the money. I always thought that was why you hated this place, and why you kept leaving. But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

She's growing up too fast for Dallas's liking. Seeing too much, growing too wise to her brother's sickness. He blames his father, curses the upbringing and family that he likes to call responsible for his disastrous life. And they did lend a hand in the creation of Dallas's faulty nature. But now, he thinks there must be something deeper wrong with him, an illness that flushes through his veins and comes from the inside. Because surely, if it was his family's fault, then their death should bring his redemption, right? But he's still the same. Just more disappointed in the outcome of his prestigious family.

"Yeah. You were wrong."

It's the only answer he can muster. Even after all this time, he cannot put into words what compels him to split from his family. Is it the respect he earns on the street, that never echoed through these walls? The ability to sink into depravity without judgment? The offer of constant entertainment, when his attention wanes so easily and is caught only by the ugliest of means? The fear that he will have to misshape his own soul to fit in with the family's reputation, should he stay? The urge to protect Eve, but this time from his own troubles? Perhaps it _is _the hatred for his father, his brother, so deep-seated it manifests even after their death. Never particularly bright, Dallas finds himself unable to analyze his own motives, acting only on the irresistible impulse of the desire the unknown motive formulates itself as.

"Was it me, then? Am I the reason you keep leaving?"

The words finally get through to Dallas, breaking through his muddled thoughts and restless desires to remind him that, no matter how much he refuses to look at her, there's another person being affected. He turns around, a quick jerk of a movement that has her pulling back, before he roughly grabs her shoulders. Her eyes widen, and gathering at the corners, the tears gleam with a light he thinks can only be his deliverance.

"For the last time, Eve - stop being stupid. It's not you. Don't you fucking dare blame yourself. You hearing me?"

"Yes. Yes, Dallas." She says, and she's wincing, trembling under his careless fingers.

"Now, you listen to me. You stay out of trouble, and you take care of this fucking estate. You're the only one who ever liked this hellhole anyway. And you quit the damn praying, because sooner or later, some asshole is going to try and take advantage of you, and there ain't no God who will help you then. You got that? All of that?" He says, desperate to impart some lesson on her, leave some lasting impression, before he expunges his presence from her everyday life.

"But I'll have you to help me. Won't I?"

With a cry of frustration, he gives her an inadvertent shake, causing her to gasp and tear up even more. And once again, he's biting his lip, and he's hating himself, because he always forgets to restrain himself around her, forgets his own strength. He's not used to having any real power over another person; how is he supposed to know how to keep it in check?

"Make it so you don't need me, Eve. I'll be right fucking there if you do, to keep you safe, but you make sure you don't get into any trouble." How can he make her understand? It isn't fair. It isn't fair that his only purpose should be one he doesn't want to have to utilize. If Eve has to be hurt for him to be of worth - what kind of redemption is that? He'd rather stay a filthy thug.

"Please, Dallas. Can you just tell me why? I must know why." She says. It's the same question she asks when he comes home drunk, when he tells her to leave him alone after a nightmare, when she finds him gone from bed and curled up in the spacious and well-lit family room in the morning. It's the same question she used to ask as a kid when she caught him sneaking out, when he had no answer but muttered swears.

"I don't fucking _know_, for the last time, Eve. It's just - it's _freer_ there, alright? More stuff there for people like me. Stuff that ain't here. You're the only thing I care about here." He says, and as he grimaces over his inability to compose an adequate answer, his fingers dig into her skin.

She cries out, and that is how he knows he has hurt her again. This time his hands jerk away from her, as if burnt by a hot stovetop. Guilty, he brings his hands back towards his chest, fingers spread apart, palms facing his sister. Has he always hurt her, this way? Or is he just noticing it more now?

He closes his eyes and turns away from her again, ready to punish himself for being the one to put her in harm's way. He said he'd protect her from any enemies. But what is he to do if that includes himself?

"I'm sorry, Eve. Just get the hell out of here. Fucking scram and leave me alone. I'm making my own damn decision and you can't stop me."

There's silence, and he figures she has finally gotten some sense into her. Dallas reaches for the suitcase once more, his fingers grazing the handle when her voice pipes up again.

"You know, you're not the only one, Dallas. You're not the only one in this family who makes mistakes."

"Well no shit - Pop and Jeffrey were fucking full of them. Our idea of _mistakes _just differs."

"I mean by their definition. I've hurt this family, too."

He freezes, his blood running cold. "Don't talk like that, Eve."

There's a pressure on his back again, but this time, it is a tug. Eve has grabbed a hold of the fabric of his jacket, clinging to it tightly, like a child afraid of becoming lost. Or of losing the person she holds on to.

"There's something I haven't told you."

The distress in her voice baffles him. What could Eve possibly have done that could ever measure up to any of Dallas's blunders with the family? She must know he's the last person who can judge her. Or perhaps that's why she can tell him - because he's the only one foul enough that he has to forgive her, no matter what.

"What is it, Eve?"

Her grip tightens. "Those thieves - the ones who took away our family's fortune? Dallas, I - I saw them, that night. I let them take it all. I prayed for them to steal it away."

Eve's confession hits him, heavy and loaded as a bag of bricks. His first instinct is to snap at her, to let her know how idiotic and naive she really is. He knew that prayer would get her in trouble someday, and he feels validated in hearing this. It's her fault their money is gone. It's her fault he has no fortune to his name. It's her fault he's reduced to a nobody. The hot beginnings of anger kindles inside him.

Where would he be, had she prevented the thieves from ruining their estate? He'd have killed his father, perhaps. Or maybe he'd have cowered away and returned to the streets, unsuccessful. He could be in jail, right now. Or stuck still in that barrel, because she would have no reason to rescue him without the death of her other family. Compared to being stuck in the estate, penniless and bound to the home he hates, he thinks both places would be preferable.

When Dallas does not speak, too busy seething and trying to keep from lashing out at the only person he cares about, Eve lets go of his shirt. "I'm sorry, Dallas. I can't imagine what you must think of me."

_'That's a laugh,' _Dallas thinks, bitterly. What _he _must think of _her_? Even if she did flush away his rightful inheritance, it still pales in comparison to the plans of murder he harbored at that same point in time.

He takes her question from earlier, and turns it back on her. "Why?"

"I thought - I thought it would save us. You and father and Jeffrey, always at each other's throats. I couldn't bear to see all that unhappiness. I just wanted a miracle, something to make it all better. A-and, I thought the money was the problem. But it wasn't. I didn't understand."

_'No, you didn't.' _And Dallas realizes that of course she did not understand, could not have understood, because she was barely a teenager when the robbery occurred. He _still _struggles to understand the roots of his family's unhappiness, and so it strikes him as unfair to expect Eve to have been able to, at such a young age.

He can't imagine it, wanting to give up a fortune. Money - that's all he pursued, on the streets with his straggling bunch of cohorts. It's what drove him to plot patricide, what drove a permanent wedge between him and his older brother. It's what he dreams of, still, when dealing with thoughts of the bleak future that lays ahead. How can anyone want to give away something as important as money? He can't fathom it. And for what - not for her own happiness, but for that of the terrible people she called family? It's unimaginable. If it was anyone else, he'd call them a sucker, and tell them they deserved any robbing they got. But it's not, and he can't, so he stays quiet.

Another surprise comes when she speaks again, despite the clear breaking of her voice that indicates her shaken state. "But you don't understand either, Dallas. I-I thought taking money away would make you happy. And you think taking yourself away will make _me _happy. But we're both wrong. Can't you please see that?"

Some days, Dallas finds it hard to believe he and Eve share any blood relation between them. However, any doubts he once expressed are rectified in this confession. If nothing else, they both share the same sin between them. Presuming to know what plagues the heart of another person. Wanting to believe the solution to happiness is as simple as running away, whether from fortune or from an estate.

The difference is - she learned from her mistake, and she grew stronger from it. She's one of the strongest people Dallas has ever met, even without the bias of his disdain for nearly every other person on earth. She adapts, while he's just repeating the same old errors, caught in some inexplicable cycle. _'I never was the smart one, Eve.' _He thinks, not surprised it has taken him well into adulthood to figure out what she discovered so young.

When she speaks again, it's a whisper. "I'd very much like it if you said something, Dallas."

But what can he say? His anger has drained completely from him, leaving only a tired affection that he does not know what to do with. He feels more than ever that she is his sister, his kin, no matter how often other people look upon their relation with disbelief. And even now, she's still teaching him new lessons, ones he did not know he needed to learn. What has running away done for either of them in the past? Nothing. She's learned that. It's about time he does, too.

Dallas whips around and ,with the same violent energy he pours into everything, he throws his arms around her small frame and pulls her tight against his chest. Tears stain her cheek, and they dampen his shirt, his skin. His hand tangles into her long, soft hair, and he wonders if that gentleness will ever temper the harshness of his own body. He remembers once worrying about dragging her down with him. But he knows now - that's impossible. Because she's stronger than him, and you cannot make budge anything with more strength than you. Even if he grabs her hand and falls, he cannot bring her down. If he tries, she will only lift him right on back up.

"I'm sorry, little Eve. I ought to go straight to hell, for making you cry."

She's shaking, a little. He has not seen her cry like this since he first saw her after being dropped from that skyscraper.

"Do you forgive me, Dallas?"

"For what? For losing the money? So you were stupid, so the fuck what? So am I, more often than you are. We're Genoards. It's what we do. We fuck up."

She nods into the embrace. "And then we always come back together."

"Damn right, Eve."

"Are you still going to leave?"

He looks over to the suitcase, with its unforgiving black leather surface, its handle probably marred from the touch of his deceased brother or father. He thinks about the streets of the city, and he wonders whether they are truly any better than the estate. It's the same misery, wherever he goes. Just different people, different troubles. And here, at least, he has Eve. And no matter how convinced he is that he's a burden on her, Dallas tries to break from that line of thinking.

"I don't think so. Not tonight, at least."

She pulls away from him, so that she can look at his face, searching as if trying to find any trace of dishonesty upon his expression. She's always been able to read him like a book, whatever schemes he tries to pull. And when she is satisfied, when her face relaxes, those eyes return to that wide-eyed look that reminds him of how she used to look up at him as a child. He hasn't seen that look in some time, now. Deservedly so - he has betrayed it too often in the past to warrant it.

And in those eyes that bring him back to his first escape as a kid, he wonders if his desire to leave is only the desire to run away. What if some component of it is actually the urge to run _towards_? What is it that he would run to try and find, all those times before? Respect, attention, power, happiness, worth, an audience to his thoughts. Love. All qualities he finds in the depths of her forgiving gaze. All qualities that have been in this hated manor all this time, buried beneath the anger and feuds of his other family members.

In that moment, Dallas knows he will not try to flee the house again. Because there is nothing at his destination that he cannot find right in front of him.

And if he should hurt her, as he fears? It doesn't matter. Because he should know by now that he understands nothing of what hurts Eve, of what consequences his actions bring. The steps he takes to keep her protected always end up hurting her in the end. Same with the steps he takes to make himself happier. How can he pretend to know what's best for anyone? Eve learned this lesson. He'd have to be an idiot not to take this as his cue to do the same.

Dallas stands up, and he offers a hand to Eve, helping her to her feet as well. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hands, until there is no trace of her sorrow left.

He points towards the door. "Go get some rest. I mean it this time, Eve. And do it in your room, where you can actually be comfortable. Got it?"

She nods, but her expression does not change. "Will I find you here, when I wake up?"

Dallas wonders how often she has asked herself this exact question, during those late-night prayers. And this makes him think of those thieves, and of how it's his terrible actions that led her to pray for them to liberate her family. Just as he's prayed, though to no God, for liberation countless times - from the manor, from his father and brother, from trouble, from the barrel, even from Eve.

_'It always ends in misery. This time, I'm not going to fuck up. I'm not just a fucking disappointment. Just you goddamn wait and see.' _He thinks, swearing to some unknown and intangible force.

Dallas reaches down and pats Eve on the head, which ends up a gentle, but awkward movement. He thinks of that dance again, the one he hasn't quite figured out. And, with full honesty in his voice and in his intention, he makes his pact to her.

"I won't leave you again. I promise, Eve."

* * *

A/N: Final piece. Hope you enjoyed it, and thank you very much for reading.


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